


Wooing Rituals of the James Bond Variety

by Elenothar



Category: James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: James in particular is very insistent, M/M, Post Movie, denial isn't only a river in Egypt, everyone thinks Q needs to eat more, when intelligent people fall in love...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-25
Updated: 2012-11-25
Packaged: 2017-11-19 12:13:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/573150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elenothar/pseuds/Elenothar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Q keeps finding cups of tea and snacks around his work station, James Bond is possibly the most regular visitor Q Branch has ever had, and it takes a ridiculously long time for them to get around to actually doing <strike>something about it </strike> each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wooing Rituals of the James Bond Variety

**Author's Note:**

> My first 00Q fic - hopefully I've managed not to mangle any character too badly.
> 
> Not betaed, since I don't know anyone in this fandom yet (if anyone would be so kind to help out, that would be appreciated).
> 
> (Also, I have no idea who started the whole cupcake thing, but I just COULDN'T resist :P)

The first time Q sees 007 after the late M's funeral, he's leaning against a brick wall in a shadowy nook of their temporary base and staring blankly at the dull stone in front of him, exuding a quiet air of exhaustion despite the rigid line of his shoulders. He cuts such a striking, no _gripping_ , picture – a remnant and reminder of an age gone by, where's the difference between ships and people after all –

that Q wishes for just a moment he had the means of capturing the image forever, more substantially than simply in his memory (even if it is indeed, quite a stellar memory), but he knows he wouldn't have done it regardless. He realizes the value of privacy, perhaps better than most.

 

Q never tells anyone of this, treasuring the short moment, for all that he hardly knows James Bond, out of an instinctive knowledge that he'd witnessed something precious, something rare that does not deserve speaking about. Bond, for his part, never gives any indication that he'd noticed Q standing there.

 

*

 

The next time he sees the agent, Bond striding into Q-Branch as if he owns the place, there's no trace of the brooding and burdened man Q had glimpsed left, save for, perhaps, the encompassing depth of his eyes. He drops the small radio transmitter Q had given him on his already laden work table. At a glance, it even seems to be still functional, which is more than he expected, being fully aware 007's frankly ridiculous track record.

 

"The gun?" he asks, raising a brow. He knows already, of course, but he's not one to pass up a chance to study Bond's reaction.

 

As it happens, the agent's reaction is a rather careless and definitely unapologetic shrug. "A Komodo dragon ate it."

 

Anywhere but at MI6 this answer would've at least raised some questions, especially regarding the respondent's sanity.

 

"A shame," Q states levelly. "As I'm sure you're aware, the equipment you so wilfully flaunt costs quite a sum of money to make."

 

The corner of Bond's mouth twitches. "Wouldn't want to deprive you of the chance to berate me, now would I?"

 

Q doesn't dignify that with an answer, turning back to his laptop. He still has a way to go in making sure that the Silva disaster cannot happen again (seriously, if he’s been in charge for longer, the security system would’ve at least given Silva pause – for one of the most foremost agencies in the world, MI6 had taken a laughably long time in getting with the times; Q blames the British penchant for traditionalism). Typing away, he expects Bond to leave, business all taken care of after all, but the agent doesn't move. The silence stretches.

 

"Was there anything else, 007?" he finally asks, careful not to let his confusion at the agent's continued presence bleed into his voice.

 

This time there's no doubt of the smirk fleetingly gracing Bond's lips. "I could think of a few things," he murmurs quietly, voice suddenly quite close to Q's ear. He draws back as instantly as he'd come closer, satisfaction sparkling in his eyes. Of course the trained field agent wouldn't miss Q's blush. Of course.

 

"Q."

 

He coughs a little. "Bond."

 

And apparently that's that.

 

It takes Q five minutes to belatedly realise that somehow Bond has left a newly refilled scrabble mug in his wake without him noticing. Curiosity peaked, he takes a careful sip. His eyebrows shoot up. It's the exact blend of tea and liquid-sugar ratio he prefers. Q looks up, only to find all of his minions studiously avoiding his gaze. Figures.

 

He glares over the top of his computer some more just for good measure. It wouldn't do for his department to turn on him, after all. Maybe he should assign them some especially atrocious tasks to drive the point home.

 

*

 

Q spends the next few weeks largely ignoring the fact that cups of tea or little bits of food (once there'd even been a cupcake. A _cupcake_. He's not even ashamed to say that that had given him pause) keep cropping up around his workstation. If this is another try to trick him into eating more, it has to be the most unsubtle one imaginable.

 

He certainly doesn't notice the fact that Bond turns up in his department at least once a day, either, apparently mostly to upset the rest of Q Branch (they love him and he hates them - Lord knows why, Q certainly doesn't), tease Q, and to try and nick new and exciting equipment. If this is what bored agents on field leave are like, Q doesn't want any more around, thank you very much.

 

And he definitely doesn't notice the way Bond smiles at him every time he sees him, or the way that makes his impossibly blue, yet often cold and tired eyes shine just a little brighter. The scary thing is that Q knows that he would actually let himself notice, if Bond bloody well said what he was really up to - the double-0 agent is an enigma, and doesn't appear particularly forthcoming with any information on his motives.

 

(Sometimes, in the dead of night when even he's left work, he entertains the notion that Bond might, in some weird, inscrutable way, be, well, _courting_ him, but then he remembers that this is James bloody Bond he's thinking about. The man who leaves a string of one night stands behind where ever he goes. The man whose only attempt at love had ended in catastrophe (and yes, everyone does know about that; what happened between Bond and Vesper Lynd is possibly the worst kept secret in the whole of MI6). The man who pursues what he wants without any trace of subtlety until he gets it.

 

Q has once sworn himself that he would never turn his brain off long enough to fall for someone like that and now he's failing himself, little step by little step.)

 

He doesn't need to be a genius to figure out that this situation, whatever this situation will turn out to be, has the potential to spectacularly blow up in everyone's faces - but most of all his. A part of him still waits for that darkness, even desolation, he'd glimpsed that one time, to emerge again, yet it never does. It only occurs to him later that he probably should be less curious and more concerned by that.

 

*

 

Even busy with not noticing things as he is, he really should've seen this coming. Bond is cleared for field work again (the psychological evaluation had been a major roadblock, but apparently he'd finally decided to just give them the damn textbook answers they wanted - of course everyone knows that that's what he did, but when it comes to double-0s M usually turns a blind eye; after all there wouldn't be any otherwise – an absolute shitload of psychological issues come with the job) and Q suddenly finds himself looking for cups of tea that aren't there, and waiting for a certain agent who doesn't show.

 

(He wonders if Pavlov would've seen this one coming - and then depresses himself further by deciding that _yes_ , he would've.)

 

When M assigns him as mission control for Bond one near-catastrophic assignment later, which, incidentally, featured a lot of explosives, they work together so well that M promptly decides to make it permanent. Q can't decide whether to laugh or cry.

 

He gets used to being the voice in Bond's ear, guiding him on missions, exchanging commentary, and even joking with the agent (sometimes he wonders how this - and he's careful not to specify 'this' - is now his life, but it's not as if he's got any complaints).

Bond still visits him every time he's in London in between missions. Q still notices. Neither of them do anything to change the status quo - a weird, strange, incomprehensible status quo, but it's theirs nonetheless.

 

*

 

When he isn't busy ruining his promising career in the British secret service on a daily basis because Bond simply _cannot_ adhere to mission plans and Q somehow always manages to get dragged into whatever insanity he's cooked up this time, he keeps himself busy actually running his department and inventing new ground-breaking pieces of tech on a regular basis. When he isn't doing that... well, sometimes he sleeps and eats (far too infrequently, if one asks Eve - though the asking is hardly necessary since she takes great pains to inform him of said opinion every time he's in earshot), but that is pretty much it. He tells himself that he isn't distracting himself from thinking about a certain frost-eyed agent, but self-denial can get one only so far, especially if one makes it as much of a habit as he is.

 

*

 

Eve is - unsurprisingly - the one who finally calls him out on it, 'visiting' (it's usually more of a strategic retreat when M's busy giving various people a bollocking; some things just don’t seem to change, no matter who’s in charge) during his lunch break. Q is a little on edge, waiting for Bond to check in from a rather incendiary skirmish in La Paz, is a little more distracted than generally advisable around these parts, and subsequently jumps when Eve appears right next to him. The woman is wearing goddamned high heels and still manages to sneak up on him.

 

"A little on edge, Q?" she asks, sounding unreasonably amused – though she usually does; he's pretty sure Eve lives for the (many) moments she can laugh at him.

 

He glares at her in lieu of an answer, gaze flicking back to his laptop and the still empty audio channel.

 

"Does it have anything to do with our favourite double-0 trouble magnet by any chance?" Eve continues, regarding him more seriously, her finger tapping a light rhythm on his desk.

 

He stills. "Why, would it?"

 

"Oh please," she snorts, rolling her eyes. "As if your face doesn't light up like a puppy's every time you're on active coms with him."

 

Damn. He'd been hoping he wasn't that obvious.

 

"It's completely professional," he says, probably far too defensively for plausible deniability, but at least it’s only Eve. Once M comes calling, _then_ he’ll be in real trouble.

 

Eve raises an eyebrow that somehow manages to be amused, sceptical, and reprimanding all at once. "Never said it wasn't. Yours is the highest success rate in babysitting Bond yet. M has assured me just this morning that he has utmost confidence in you."

 

"Is that code for 'everything's fine - until you bugger it up and then I'll serve you your head on a platter'?"

 

She grins. "Knew you were a smart boy."

 

*

 

Q only remembers that today is his birthday when he finds a surprise sitting on his desk coming in to work before everyone else (he’s a notoriously bad sleeper, which had turned out to be something of an advantage at never-sleeping MI6). He stares at the blue, red, and white cupcake unbelievingly for a moment, and then bursts into laughter, glad that no one else is in the vicinity to witness him giggling like a schoolboy over a cupcake of all things. Who would've guessed that Bond had such a quirky sense of humour tucked away somewhere behind his stone-faced facade and overprized designer suits (and occasional baffling mood swings).

 

Q looks down at the innocuous little thing with something very much like fondness, something new (or rather four months, three days, ten hours, and a few minutes old) and warm curling in his belly. For the first time he consciously lets himself think that just maybe this might, in time, be a _thing_ , that maybe Bond is actually serious. Why else would he go to such trouble over such a length of time just to make Q feel good (his mind shies away from the word 'wanted') - not exactly one-night-stand-behaviour, that. And definitely not inside Bond’s usual operating parameters, and Q would know, since one of his first actions as the new quartermaster had been to study MI6’s most notorious double-0’s file inside out.

 

The cupcake, as it happens, is delicious. (If the quality of Bond's equipment coincidentally goes up a little in the following weeks and Q complains about his destruction of said equipment a little less, no one comments.)

 

*

 

Three weeks later he finds himself exponentially grateful that he's avoided the complete cliché of 'realizing his affections' for a certain person once that person nearly kicks the bucket. Sitting at Bond's bedside for a second day in a row, he watches the injured agent sleep, complexion looking only a little healthier than the white hospital sheets tucked around his supine body. He's running out of viable excuses as to why he's so anxious to reassure himself that 007 has managed, despite Bond’s best efforts, to still be alive and breathing (M hadn't been impressed with his argument that he could do his work just as well from a hospital room with a laptop, but had let it slide for now, since Q is just that good and gets a little leeway as long as nothing major happens). Maybe Q should've fallen for someone boring, whose life isn't constantly on the line for queen and country (and who's not so bloody stubborn either). Not that he'd got around to actually _telling_ Bond that, he'd rather hoped that the man might come out and _ask_ him first, what a novel concept. Now, confronted with the startling frailty of human lives, he might have to rethink that stance.

 

Which is why, logical being that he is, he scarpers before Bond can wake up and he might have to face that choice.

 

*

 

Ridiculously stubborn and endowed with a spectacular lack of self-preservation as usual, Bond is up and about long before he would've been officially discharged by any sane doctor. Q knows this because he turns up in Q Branch first thing, foregoing the usual debrief (M is going to be soo happy about that later, Q just bets) in favour of casually leaning against Q’s desk.

 

"Q," Bond says, voice gravelly from disuse. He holds himself carefully, not to aggravate his torn side, but it's surprisingly subtle. Someone with a completely untrained eye might've missed it, which, Q supposes, just goes to show what calibre of agent the man is (plus the almost impossibly high pain threshold, that is).

 

"I hear you've been keeping me company."

 

It’s not a question, and Q can’t quite suppress his instinctive twitch. “Well, someone has to make sure you’re still among the living.”

 

Bond regards him silently, the seriousness on his face at odds with the brightening gleam in his eye. “It seems we’ve reached an impasse.”

 

Without further warning, he leans forward and kisses Q, who, most assuredly, does _not_ squeak like a little girl and melt into the touch.

 

When Bond's - no, James's - lips finally relinquish their hold on his mouth, Q has to take a second to re-orientate himself before gasping, " _Months_!You could've just _said_ something. I know for a fact that words aren't beyond you."

 

The reply comes in that particular, Bond-certified dead-pan. "I was being sensible."

 

"Please, don't feel the need to cramp your style on my account," Q retorts dryly. “Sensible isn't a good look on you."

 

James only grins, the infuriating man. "Everything looks good on me."

 

Unfortunately – or fortunately, depending – Q really can't argue with that.

 

“… a cupcake though?” he can’t resist pointing out.

 

James sniffs loftily. “It was patriotic.”

 

 


End file.
